On My Tongue
it is rains residual
a hiss
from new grown long grasses
chirrups memory
from hoppers of deep discarded
poppy fields
where serpentine it weaves
to bug me
this hissing
inches wince
bringing lips to pucker
here
not for kissing
for these
lost summers breeze through me
from before such things
and as lips
pucker here
reminiscing on the riffing
of acidic drip
fizz in flesh
of lemonade
sold from our makeshift market
i remember
through the haze
and taste again
noxious sugars of childhood
spoiling me
before the taint
of all that poppy seeds
could mean
for the pain
Rick Dove (c) 2016
Momentary
comes on the dusk
last mayfly flash of youthful beauty
linger blink
before
the first petal falls
where I see thee
calling
calling
my calling
calls
comes on the dusk
all slippy sidle slinky sashay
with this final sinking
incandescent rage
do not go gentle
into that good night
this norse ship lamp
and fetching light
playing
so bright
against the dark
comes on the dusk
the lengthening thickening spikes
of shadow snare
herewhere darkness blurs
and begins to blow
thar she glows
last post
as whispers on the breeze
this
is mortality
this
is the day to sieze
with twisted clarity
of fleshly lusts
the mezzanine
of mizzen me
stirring
where I see thee
calling
calling
my calling
calls
comes on the dusk
the magical mischief hour
as night becomes you
sneaky glower
on the east
we these ships
passing promissory
promising merry merry
and ne'er enough
cover
for the weaker parts of me
lost to the sea
comes on the dusk
where I see thee
beckoning long
again
and again
a mayfly blink
momentary
and gone
my reluctant muse
homeward shone
as dusk comes
on
Rick Dove (c) 2016
Uszka
Around you
these clouds have meat
suspended in blood red skies
sunset spooled
to rolling boil
of fermented firmament cooled
catches the back of my throat
with suspended heat
of sorrow
where these words
of unspoken passion
settle waiting on the marrow of morrow
settle thick and sticky sweet
and taste somehow of home
these clouds have meat
condensed
soaked heavy with memory
with diluted blood
crying distilled
in which they sail the sky
dreaming of full lips to call their own
and a wistful tear
raindrop clear
on a cheek bone
high
Rick Dove (c) 2016
The Function of Why
And you look at me
like i owe you
an explanation...
But the robs
make robs
now daddy
And the bots
breed bots
now daddy
And the robots
build robots
now daddy
And you look at me
like i owe you
some kind
of detailed explanation
of how our nation
and nations
came to this
with the numbers
in parentheses
in loco parentis
these
whimsical recursions
that created this
how we came
to debating this
retreat into madness
we called progress
for there
and there again
the beast in us
loves
progress
and you look at me
asking
how did we
surrender it
that glitch in thinking
that makes us rich
that comes as itch
to never let us rest
until we make it
that made us fake it
until we made it
until we made progress
how was it
that we lost the wit
to woo
to be true to this
this life
we once sought
to rule
and became a slave to it
and the numbers that we pursued
and became as slaves to it
our greatest logic
so cold and so cruel
and you
are
stating we are
fools
as the robs make robs
now daddy
And the bots breed bots
now daddy
And the robots build robots
now daddy
And the end of us
is now
daddy
and pointing to your
desire for a time machine
you tell me
that the end of the story
should be creativity
and wanting to be
all
we can be
and never ever
surrendering
to our machines
in staying
in praying
in playing
in purity
in staying
in praying
in playing clean
you tell me
about my humanity
for the robs
make robs
now daddy
And the bots
breed bots
now daddy
And the robots
build robots
now daddy
And the start
of the future
is now
daddy
and you look at me
like i
owe you
some kind
of explanation
not realising
your questions
are explaining
to me
Rick Dove (c) 2016
Counterpoint
Shush, she says, with slip of tongue and trip of sighs,
Puffed through pursed lips, come high, to bate with this,
Every silence has music, and this is mine
As maddening space, now grows apace like
Kisses rained upon the face in manic tryst,
Shush, she says, with slip of tongue and trip of sighs,
Too much, too soon to speak of, too moved am I,
Hearing inferred words under breath amiss,
Every silence has music, and this is mine.
In contortion’s convoluted thrall divine,
Nude in assonance so asinine we twist,
Shush, she says, with slip of tongue and trip of sighs,
All words must leave you now her breathy lullaby
Nothingness is where we reside, in bliss
Every silence has music, and this is mine,
Made crazed crescendo tantric tied,
Unified passions leave our meanings stripped,
Shush, she says, with slip of tongue and trip of sighs,
Every silence has music, and this is mine
Rick Dove (c) 2015
Disingenuity and Tea
as she pretends to pretentious
in place of irony
all airs and graces takes
for favour's sake
coy and twee
edited clipped refined and sweet
nectar for mine ear
nothings sounding
deep
deep
she leaves
stewing cross hatched
h
dropped
t
but this nostalgia is not what
it used to be
and so
she bakes anaphylatic cakes
mandrakes
for sleep
adieu adieu adieu
remember me
Rick Dove (c) 2016
Art Teacher
to capture a still life
best
she said
it would be necessary
to live
in the spaces
between
things
to define these
accurately
with passionate idealism
to know intimately
where
nothing
is
where it belongs
and how it holds
all composition
together
to get her
she said
a lightness of touch
must be essential quintessence
made medium of massaged
oils
sinking into skin as ink
to mark this space
without crude and sharp boundaries
of such
reality
she said
to give this
edge
we
need
space
and there
as we spoke
with each stroke
rose the vitality
of be-
-stilled
life
and somewhere
a wiser hand
drew
breath
To Caesar
i came to call it
Vox Dei
this ability
to write in a rhythm
that reprograms
the minds of anyone
and everyone
who reads
such lines
i enthral it
suggestion
cum mesmerism
cum semantic alchemy
blended in prose or poetry
in a thousand infinitesimal
symmetries
that work insidiously
to make the world
bend
to my will
people are obedient
people are malleable
to me
like words
you are
to me
like fatted words
plucked
and stuffed
and fit for a centrepiece
you know what i want
you always did
the march of ides
i’d
id
Rick Dove (c) 2016
This is Beautiful: An Autology
To wear delusion, thick as winter cloak,
He masters deepest self and nakedness,
Extremist dreams and strongest breath invokes...
Earnestly robed he wove lines of this quest,
Measures his threads, of sense and life precise,
Patterns for each and every comely inch,
Exposed upon the beaten street of vice,
Regaled so golden, silky, bow and cinch,
Openly strides the scene, with cocky pride,
“Remember me,” he calls and cries, in vain
Soliloquy of growing child inside...
Now, in public dissected, stripped, remains,
Every silent reflection, caught, undone,
Will be, in time, a simple failure, come.
Perhaps in making such delusion real,
Over content, a style of truth reveals
Every extent to which the world is lies,
Made in beholders blinded, loving eyes.
Rick Dove (c) 2016